


Was It Something I Said?

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-15
Updated: 2004-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>What am I, your fucking cat?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Was It Something I Said?

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before "Time Bomb." Title, summary, and headings taken from Maggie Estep's _Emotional Idiot_.

_i. I'm an emotional idiot_

Meetings, Angel has always thought, are the cornerstone of a successful corporation. Truth be told, he's not sure what else running a successful might consist of, so he puts his faith, such as it is, on the staff meeting. He schedules them every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Half of the time, however, not everyone shows up, due to ongoing cases, investigations, or other work that precludes attendance.

A third of the time, the meetings consist solely of Angel and Spike.

They don't usually go very well.

_ii. it's a big country_

They get into the same fight, every single time, and every single time, one of them stomps off in a huff.

This time, it's Spike, provoked by some off-the-cuff remark Angel made about keeping a woman satisfied. Angel follows him as he stalks down several flights of stairs, all the way down to the parking garage.

"What are you doing?" he demands, as Spike grabs a set of keys.

"Getting away from you," Spike snaps. He swings onto a Harley Davidson, guns the motor. "Obviously."

"Spike, don't," Angel orders.

Spike flips two fingers at him and revs off.

"Spike, it's three in the afternoon," he shouts.

Spike circles around the parking lot and returns to the parking space. "I knew that."

_iii. aren't I enough for you_

The problem with Spike staying, however, is Spike continuing his rant as if the last fifteen minutes hadn't intervened.

"It's not like I'm evil anymore, you know," he shouts, his voice echoing as he throws the keys in the general direction of their home. "I'm just not good at the corporate lackey business, and it's not my fault you aren't any good at running a business."

Angel turns, then, stalks off in a similar manner.

Spike follows him to the elevator. "I don't work for you, but we can do some good, you know. Help the helpless?"

The elevator _dings_ as the doors open.

_iv. you're so cold_

Spike follows, too closely. Angel turns, half-heartedly shoves him back, but Spike bounces back, presses him against the wall of the elevator as it starts to ascend.

He hits the stop button as they're between floors, and laughs as Angel shoves him again.

He presses up close, eases their bodies together, hard against Angel's hip. "Tell me you hate this," he purrs in Angel's ear. "I like that, remember?"

_v. don't rub me like that_

Their clothes are muslin, their robes are burlap, and there's a convent Angelus wishes to penetrate.

So to speak.

It's Italian, of course, as the finest nunneries are, and as a gaggle of nuns passes beneath his gaze, Angelus discerns that it houses the finest nuns, as well. He can't wait to taste them.

He feels himself swell against his breeches, anticipation and lust running through him like blood.

Spike grumbles beside him, not as happy under the monkish garb. "Why all the cloak and dagger, mate? Why don't we just grab a couple of the birds and run?"

"You've no art in your soul, William," he murmurs, eyes on a stray sister as she trails her hands over the brick wall. Newly frocked, no doubt. "No poetry at all."

He's taken by surprise when Spike grabs him, slams him against the wall.

"Spike, what--"

"Take it back."

_vi. don't you have anything_

Angel probably should have shoved Spike off again, but he's always found it hard to commit violence on someone who's willing to rub him off in an elevator without being asked to do so. It's a weakness, Angel thinks, but one he can probably live with.

Spike jerks him off artlessly, but he doesn't need finesse for this. Angel bites his lip, fighting back a whimper, because that would be too telling.

_vii. my life is your life_

Footsteps echo down the corridor, and Angelus hisses warning to Spike, still irate.

"We don't have time for this, William," he whispers, and they duck into an alcove as a priest appears at the end of the hallway. They crouch behind the statue of a saint, not out of fear, but for the thrill of it.

Angelus snickers as the priest passes by, oblivious, and then Spike's hand sneaks through the part in his robes. He groans as Spike rubs against the bulge in his trousers, and Spike laughs.

"See if you think this funny, mate."

Angelus rests his forehead against the feet of the saint, but he's never been farther from praying.

Then he catches the echo of women's feet down the corridor--two of them. Spike's pace quickens, and Angelus almost hopes the nuns will interrupt them.

viii. it's nothing personal

Angel bucks into Spike's hand, speaks obscenities with his expression, but doesn't make a sound.

Spike, on the other hand, whispers filth in Angel's ear, though his own erection has gone unattended.

When Angel comes, it's with a curse and a howl, and a fervent desire to make Spike beg.

It isn't the first time.

_ix. why are you acting_

The bodies of the nuns lie sprawled at the feet of the saint, their throats pierced and their robes mussed.

Angelus ignores them, for now, instead captivated by the way Spike arches against the wall, how he presses his face against the brick and gasps as he thrusts into him.

"What do you want, boy?" Angelus growls.

"God," Spike pants, his hands scrabbling against the brick.

Angelus laughs at that; it seems a fitting profanity.

Spike's hips feel almost brittle under his hands.

He squeezes tighter.

x. what did I do

The elevator ascends, and they ride in silence. Angel shifts uncomfortably, damp fabric heavy and rough against his skin.

The elevator sounds a quiet _ping_, signaling when they arrive at Angel's penthouse.

Angel glances at Spike, then away again. Awkward. The doors slide open, and he steps out, already unbuckling his belt, shrugging his jacket off.

He hesitates, turns back and swings an arm forward, halting the elevator doors as they start to close. "Spike."

Spike looks at him, curiosity evident as he raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Why don't you come in?"

It's a symbolic gesture, really, but he feels the need to make it.

Spike nods, then, and smiles. "Thanks, mate."

Angel returns to stripping his stained clothing off, and wanders off to shower. It's not an invitation, either, but Spike takes it as one.

Maybe it was, after all.


End file.
